Cynophobia
by Little Miss Beatlemaniac
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was never really a dog person. In fact, he is afraid of them. But what happens when John gets a hold of this information and adopts a pet dog for their apartment? Can this case of cynophobia be stopped by man's best friend? Contains Johnlock
1. Traumatic Experience

**A/N: I've been on a bit of a Sherlock craze. It's such a good show! This story was inspired by my apiphobia (fear of bees) and the time I watched "The Hounds of Baskerville" and started asking myself a bunch of what-ifs. This is one of them: what if Sherlock were afraid because he had a fear of dogs? Then I decided it would make a good story, so voilá! Here it is! Also, Sherlock and John are BF's in this one. Enjoy! Please R & R!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Mark Gatiss, Steve Moffat, and BBC do.**

**(Third-Person P.O.V.)**

"Man's best friend" was illogical to him. "Man's worst nightmare" seemed to be a more fitting title to describe the creature that so many people called their pets. But humans, being their typical, stupid selves, had no idea how _dangerous_ they really were.

They could bite your arm off and tear it to shreds. They could pounce on top of you and crush you to death with their weight. Or worse, they could bark loudly and intimidatingly to place you under a permanent shock or insanity. At least, that was Sherlock Holmes's theory on the matter.

He had hardly ever been much of a dog person, really. But it was when he had that traumatizing experience that he became so afraid of their presence. He feared their flea-ridden fur, their dark intense eyes, their jagged bone-crushing teeth, their constantly springing legs, and their sound barrier-breaking barks. He got to fearing them so much that he refused to read any Peanuts comics and he often avoided places such as pet stores and parks. Every time he encountered such a creature, his mind became a haze and he began to reminisce.

Suddenly, he would convert from a cold consulting detective to a young five-year-old boy. It would be summer time and he would be going to the store to get some ice cream with his father. Then, they stopped at somebody's house. It was probably a friend of his father's; he didn't know. His friend had a Bearded Collie named Oreo and he often kept him out of his kennel.

Oreo would walk around the house, just calmly sniffing to see if anybody had dropped some scraps. Sherlock was curious as to what he was like. After all, he hadn't really seen a dog in real life. He'd just watched Lassie and heard the commercials for dog food on the radio. He never experienced a dog up close.

So, it was perfectly natural for Sherlock to be hiding nervously behind his father's leg when the creature curiously made his way over to him. His father, a strong, kind man, only laughed and stroked the boy's hair.

"Don't be afraid, son! He's just a dog, he won't hurt ya!" he coaxed. Sherlock gradually went from peeping timidly at Oreo to slowly dawdling towards him. The dog turned his head in interest, looking at the young child. Then, Sherlock reached his hand out tediously still and began to stroke his fur. Oreo panted happily and Sherlock laughed, seeing that he was okay. The big furry doggy wasn't going to attack him _after_ all.

"You see? You're okay!" his father encouraged, a smile lighting his face. Sherlock continued to laugh as he stroked Oreo.

"Nice doggy, nice doggy!" he cooed happily. He and his father kept visiting his friend's house and he kept looking for Oreo. Then, he would pet him and follow him around. One fateful day, though, this all changed.

Sherlock was petting Oreo and laughing once again while he was sitting on the sofa and Oreo was sitting on the ground between his legs. Then, he paused and remembered an episode where Little Timmy hugged Lassie. He decided to try the same thing with Oreo. He leaned forward and hugged him around the scruff of his neck whilst giggling when suddenly,

"_Bark_!" Oreo growled and there was a sharp, excruciating pain on Sherlock's palm. He pulled back and held it, tears in his eyes and screaming,

"_OWWWWWW_!" He ran away from Oreo and up to his father. "I WANT MUMMY!" he screeched, waving his pained hand around in the air. His father calmed him down enough to get him to tell him what was wrong. "That mean ol' doggy _bit_ me! I wanna go home!" he sobbed. His father merely lead him upstairs to the bathroom to get a First-Aid kit.

Then he cleaned Sherlock's red cut and placed a bandage on it. He had to take Sherlock home early because he put up such a fuss whenever Oreo came anywhere near him. From then on, Sherlock refused to go to his father's friend's house. He had completely destroyed his trust for Oreo and all other dogs that appeared.

Whenever his father tried to get him to come with him, he threw a huge tantrum and cried, banging his fists on the floor.

"Now, Violet, I don't understand this! One minute he's asking where Oreo is and how he's doing, and the next, he's arguing about what a bad dog he is and how he should be locked up!" Sherlock's father remarked confusedly.

"Siger, honey, it's just a phase he's going through. He'll grow out of it eventually," Sherlock's mother replied over her knitting. But, on the contrast, Sherlock only became _more_ afraid. He stopped watching Lassie, he cried at every dog food commercial when the dogs barked, and he even stopped reading several dog-related cartoons and watching dog-related shows on TV. Worst of all, he freaked out whenever he saw a dog in real life.

Over the years, it gradually became worse. It often ate at his insides and made him feel depressed. Now, here he was, a thirty-something-year-old adult with a boyfriend about to solve another case. So, he should be happy, right? _Wrong_. There was one thing wrong with that picture, and it was this: they were solving a dog-related case. He hated the thought of even going _near_ such a dingy animal.

He was walking in the woods with John and Henry and searching for the "hound" that Henry often seemed to refer to. The sky was covered with a dark black blanket that prevented anybody from seeing stars and the woods hummed and buzzed with slight insect activity. Already, the air was dampened with moist humidity. Or was it Sherlock's perspiration? He couldn't tell the difference.

Suddenly, they heard a growl. It shook every bone in Sherlock's body. Then, a howl. It raised the hairs on Sherlock's neck and back. He sweated and breathed heavily, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest for all of Baskerville to hear. They arrived at a hollow in the woods. Just then, Sherlock's light caught a moving figure. It was long, lean, and dark. It growled menacingly.

Sherlock was frightened beyond reality, now. He was paralyzed in place and he stared at it, his eyes widening and his mouth hanging agape. John ran up to him just as the creature disappeared.

"Sherlock? Love, are you okay?" he asked. Sherlock's mouth twitched and he ran off towards who-knows-where. John, being the concerned and loving type, followed his tail. Finally, they arrived at the local inn and Sherlock sat in a chair in front of the fire place. John did the same.

Sherlock sat there for a few minutes, shaking visibly, before he finally broke down.

"I - there was - I saw the hound! I saw it! It was there!"

He sobbed and John strode over to his side, having hardly ever seen that side of Sherlock before. He gently guided him into his lap and rocked him back and forth.

"Hush-sh-sh-sh. It's okay. You can tell me anything. We're _partners_, remember? Partners _trust_ each other," he whispered, pressing his lips to the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked up, his eyes, nose, and cheeks red with gloom.

"John, I...I don't know how you're going to react, but I...well you see, I don't like dogs very much...I'm af - af - " he began.

"You're afraid of dogs," John finished. Sherlock nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. "Love, why didn't you tell me earlier?" the shorter man queried, stroking Sherlock's chestnut tresses.

"Again, I was afraid of what you would think. Here I am, supposed to be all strong for you and yet I'm afraid of a stupid _canine_," Sherlock replied hysterically, not knowing whether he was laughing, crying, or both. He grabbed onto John's shirt, trying desperately to wipe his tears. John held onto him determinedly.

"We're going to get through this somehow. I _know_ it," he promised whole-heartedly, rubbing small and comforting circles on Sherlock's back. That night, John stroked Sherlock's hair and made sure that he fell asleep first so that there would be no nightmare-induced dreams.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Irrational fears and all," he whispered, before kissing him on the forehead and drifting off to sleep.

"And I, _you_," Sherlock muttered coincidentally or non-coincidentally in his sleep, before rolling onto his side and hugging John's waist.


	2. Stupid Dog

**Story: Did you miss me?**

**A/N: That's right, folks! After much debate in my head (there are battle scars, believe me), I have decided to bring this story back from the dead! *cackles maniacally* It's aliiiiive! X-D Okay, so in this chapter, John stops by the store while he is out and gets his boyfriend a "little surprise". Enjoy! Please R & R!**

**Disclaimer: (read by Sherlock) Blah, blah, blah, boring, boring, boring. Yes, we get it, I own myself and John.**

**John: ****_What_****?! **

**Sherlock: You heard me, Watson.**

(Third-Person P.O.V.)

It was Sherlock's turn to get the groceries for once and he obliged, but only because John agreed to participate in his latest science experiment that evening. John decided to go to the coffee shop with his laptop so that he wouldn't look like a loner without his boyfriend. He hailed the nearest taxi cab. The Mac nodded at him and he got inside.

Rain drizzled and flowed down the windows in silver cascades while grey shadows of clouds smothered all of London. For most people this was miserable weather, but in the London inhabitants's case, it was typical if not fair weather. Buildings and street signs became passing blurs as John got closer to his destination.

Once he arrived, he hastily paid the Mac and walked inside the small shop to get a cappuccino. He sat down with his steaming cup and his black laptop, ready to type on his blog. He wrote,

"According to our evidence, the hounds were not real, but rather hallucinations generated by a psychotropic drug created by the _real_ murderer of our client's father. In conclusion, Dr. Robert Frankland was the murderer and the case is closed. Until next time, Dr. John Watson."

John posted his writings and searched the web for other cases. Unfortunately, there were none for that day. He sighed, finished his coffee, and began to head home. He decided to walk this time since the rain had temporarily stopped. A store on the other side of the road caught his eye. He became so interested in it that he nearly got run over by taxi-drivers while he crossed the street.

He walked inside and observed his surroundings. A lady at the cashier smiled and said,

"Can I help you?" John turned to her.

"Yes, I'm looking for a - " He whispered the rest in her ear and her face brightened.

"Ah, yes! They're right over there!" she declared, pointing with a polished fingernail. John nodded.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said briefly, before searching for the perfect gift for his significant other. He looked at his options. **No, that one's too small. Nuh-uh, too furry. This one is ugly, and anyway, the tags look too hard to cut off. ...Wait. That's - That's perfect!**

"I'll take it!" John announced proudly, holding the gift in his hands. The lady smiled once more and he paid for it before carrying it home. He could not wait until Sherlock got back to the flat.

Later, Sherlock returned with a bag of groceries in his hands and a moody attitude due to long lines at the check-out.

"Hello, darling!" John sang, rushing up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Hmph," Sherlock grumbled, snorting and setting the bags down. John ignored his apparent grumpiness and stored the groceries away.

"I see you got more milk and jam," he commented, holding the containers for both thoughtfully in his hands. Sherlock sighed and spoke at last.

"Slimy bunch of nit-picking wankers! 'Go in _that_ aisle,' she said! 'It's so much _shorter_,' she said! Ah, screw this, I'm gonna go shower! At least there'll be no line of sods holding me up _there_! Stupid frickin' gol-dang - " he complained. John laughed as the taller man trudged up the stairs to his room before realizing that his gift was in there. He closed his eyes and counted on his fingers. Three...two...one...

"AUGHHHHHH!" Sherlock screamed, stampeding down the stairs like a herd of buffalo. The gift followed closely behind, sprinting and barking at his heels. Sherlock ran up to John and jumped into his arms so that the soldier was holding his frightened princess in his arms bridal-style. The gift, which was, in fact, a dog (surprise), barked and growled, all riled up and excited from the pursuit that momentarily occurred. John kept a straight face shortly before erupting into fits of giggles.

"This isn't funny! What the hell is a dog doing in our apartment?!" Sherlock fumed, clutching onto John's shirt with fear. John choked out his next lines, nearly doubling over with laughter.

"It's a new method, love. They call it exposure therapy. The more often you experience the presence of a dog, the less afraid you will become. I told you I would help you with your fear and this is how it's gonna be done."

"What, so there's no other, better way to get rid of my fear than by buying a God-damn monster and letting it sleep in my bedroom?!" Sherlock demanded, his face red with rage.

"Actually there is, but this is so much more effective and it makes for a _hilarious_ video to put on my blog," John replied, holding up the video camera he used to record Sherlock's reaction. The taller man blushed and growled in realization shortly before the dog barked and he shuddered.

"Help! Help! He's trying to attack me!" he screamed, burying his face in the side of John's neck. He felt like his five-year-old self again, but he couldn't help it. John frowned in thought and walked over to the dog.

"No! No, Maxwell! Bad! No barking!" he scolded firmly, as if the golden retriever could understand. Maxwell stopped barking for a second, but then he smelled that Sherlock was still afraid and became tense all over again.

"Ruff! Ru-ru-ru-ruff! Ruff, ruff!"

"_Shut him up_!" Sherlock shouted hysterically, small tears streaming down his face. He let out several shaky sobs as if he were spitting them out and his face scrunched up with anxiety.

"No! Bad Maxwell, bad! No barking!" John scolded once more before he reached out to pet the animal's fur. Maxwell gave up and receded to low growls. John smiled. "Good boy! See, Sherlock? He's friendly." Sherlock protested immediately.

"No he's not! He's a bad dog! He oughta be caged and put in a mental facility - "

"Shh-sh-sh," John soothed, rubbing Sherlock's back and bouncing him up and down lightly in his arms like he would a newborn baby. Eventually, his crying was quelled and he cheered up significantly when John reminded him of his scientific experiment. John, however, found himself to be most befuddled by the fact that he was standing in a bucket of water...while wires with metal pincers clutched his arms...and he wore nothing but the colander on his head, boxers, and a pair of old socks.

"Uh, Sherlock? Are you sure this is safe?" John inquired unsurely.

"Of _course_ it is, love. The Internet guaranteed it," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. In reality, of course, he was warned that it could be potentially dangerous and he knew that John secretly wanted it to be. His thin lips curved upwards: it was just the way they liked it. "Ready, John?" he asked.

"Yes," the smaller man answered. Sherlock picked up the main power wire that was connected to John, put on his welding mask, turned on the welding torch, and lit up the end of the wire. Right away, sparks flew and it grew red-hot. The wire buzzed and the red-hot area transferred towards John. Once it collided with him, it sent green electrolytes coursing from the bottom of John's body to the water he was standing in. They glowed in his very skin and popped like firecrackers when they hit the water. John was awestruck by the simple science.

"Amazing! Brilliant! Fantastic!" he cried.

"Fascinating," Sherlock agreed, his forehead wrinkling as he chewed his pencil. Maxwell was disturbed by the high-pitched sound coming from the kitchen. He whimpered and ran in circles, perplexed by the noise. When he found out where it was coming from, he barked and rushed into the kitchen. Naturally, Sherlock freaked out and climbed onto the top of the table. Maxwell jumped onto the chair and landed on the table, causing Sherlock to panic and rush across the island counters as the dog chased him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, calm down! He won't stop chasing you until you do, you know!" John declared.

"_Get away from me_!" Sherlock shouted at the dog, flailing his arms. John sighed and got out to help shortly before tripping and falling out, getting covered in green water. Sherlock skidded five feet on his heels and turned around to help him. "John, love, are you okay?" he asked, kneeling on the ground. John laughed.

"I'm fine, don't fret. Say, this tastes like Gatorade," he proclaimed, licking the back of his hand. Sherlock chuckled and pecked him on the cheek. The smaller man was right: the electrolytes caused the water to taste like Gatorade. They collected as much of it as possible and John went to take a shower.

John turned on the hot water and began to sing. Sherlock listened from outside the door and smirked: he hardly ever heard him sing in the shower. John came out, his hair wet and smelling like strawberry vanilla. Sherlock liked his doctors fresh and clean. Not to mention snuggly. When John got into bed, he purred, wrapped his arms around his waist, and nuzzled his nose into his neck.

"Well, _you_ seem to be in a better mood," John chuckled, stating the obvious.

"You smell nice..." Sherlock gurgled sleepily in reply. John reached out and turned off the lights. They lay in their comfortable positions for a while. John stroked the taller man's hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, batting his eyelashes slowly and struggling to stay awake.

"I'm sorry I bought Maxwell without you knowing. Are you mad at me?" John asked. Sherlock thought for a second.

"I was for a while. But I understand what must be done to eliminate my deepest phobia," he answered honestly.

"Thank you for understanding, love. Everything I do is for you, you know," John whispered. Sherlock turned over so that he was lying on top of John and planting kisses on every inch of his face that he could find. John giggled at the warm and ticklish touch. Gradually, the kisses grew sloppier and lazier. Finally, the two men fell asleep in each other's arms.

Sunlight shined through the window panes and pierced the consulting detective's eyes. He groaned, unable to open his eyelids, and kissed the hair of the body next to him.

"Good morning John, love," he whispered. What followed was a loud, animal-like groan. "I know you're tired, but we have to search for a new case today. It's been too long." Another groan. Then a loud sneeze. "Gesundheit. Now c'mon, let's go. By the way, you need to shave. It's as if you grew a beard over night." A voice from the other side of the bed giggled.

"Sherlock, who are you _talking_ to?" he asked. Sherlock sighed.

"Don't play coy with me, Watson."

"No, seriously. Look." Sherlock opened his eyes fully and found that it was not John he had his arms around, but rather -

"AUGHHHHH!"

"Ru-ru-ru-ruff! Ruff!" ...Maxwell. Sherlock fell off and bumped his head. Epic fail.

"Bloody hell!" he hollered. John only laughed and shook his head. This cynophobia business was going to take awhile.

**A/N: The science experiment is not real. I totally made it up in my head. Don't try it at home, kids. **


	3. Finding Maxwell Part 1

**A/N: Thanks to the movie Starter For 10 (which I also do not own), I can't seem to stop imagining Sherlock with ginger hair and sweaters. It almost suits him, in a way, but it's slowly invading my mind! :-) In this chapter, Sherlock has to face the challenge of searching for Maxwell after he "accidentally" loses him in London. By the way, I may not be able to upload for a while because I'm going camping for a few days. Enjoy! Please R & R!**

John got up from the breakfast table and began to put on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired curiously and a bit fearfully.

"I have to go to work, love," John answered casually. Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist.

"What, without me? Your trusty consulting detective partner?" he asked. John giggled and shook his head.

"Not _that_ work, silly. The hospital. I work part-time there now, remember?" Sherlock puffed out his lower lip and fluttered his eyelashes.

"Can't you just stay home and snuggle instead?" he whimpered. John chuckled.

"Sherlock, there are patients at that hospital waiting for my help."

"Don't you think it's at least a _little_ selfish that they're taking away our 'Snuggle Time' ? Why can't they take care of themselves?" Sherlock retorted childishly.

"Well, dear, not everybody can be a genius like you," he mused. Sherlock sighed and pouted, folding his arms. John stroked his hair endearingly. "Aw, don't worry, love. We'll have 'Snuggle Time' when I get back, okay?"

"Okay!" Sherlock sang, perking up at the good news. John kissed his cheek and walked down the stairs.

"Bye, love!" he called.

"Yeah!...Bye!" Sherlock echoed less enthusiastically. It was bad enough that he was left with the dog of the devil, but now he also had to face his second-worst fear on the planet: boredom. He slumped on the couch in his blue bathrobe, grey T-shirt, and plaid pants (not the English kind, LOL). Next, he adopted a frowny face, emphasizing the look of a duck-lipped butler. Then, he purposefully messed up on the violin, making it sound like it was shrieking in a horror movie. Finally, he began to chant at the top of his lungs,

"Bored! Bored! Bored! Booored! Boredboredbored! ...Mrs. Hudson!" The older lady fumbled into his apartment and scolded,

"Oh, _Sherlock_! Shame on you, breaking your violin again! What's with the noise, anyway?"

"John left on account of having to go to 'work'," Sherlock spat, sneering at the last word. Mrs. Hudson frowned in disapproval.

"Well, that's not very nice of those patients taking him away, _is_ it?" she lectured. Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"Boy, you like us together more than you should."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mrs. Hudson contradicted shortly before sipping tea from a cup labeled, "#1 Johnlock Shipper". As if to make a special announcement, Sherlock whined,

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm _bored_."

"Well, dear, you _could_ try cleaning your room," the older lady suggested, or rather, enforced. Sherlock's face brightened: he had an idea.

"Wait! Even better! How about _you_ clean my room while _I_ sit back and tell you what you're doing wrong?" he said. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"No, dear. I'm not your housekeeper. Would you like to help me make tea and crumpets for my guests?"

"Boring, Mrs. Hudson, boring!" Sherlock blurted. The older lady sighed.

"Have it your way, dear. Ta." She waved good-bye and walked back to her apartment. Sherlock went back to slouching on the couch like a sociopathic blob. He began to wish she hadn't left: butting heads with her was the highlight of his day. He got his violin and stood up, making up a song as he went.

"I'm really frickin' bored!

Where the hell is John?

I hate this stupid song!

It's boring and tasteless!

I don't give a shite,

That it doesn't rhyme!

Ugh, God, I just rhymed!

Woah, look at the time!

Dammit, stop rhyming,

Or I'll start crying!"

Every neighbor was disturbed and blocking their ears from the wretched noise coming from 221B Baker Street. Maxwell was disturbed too, and he made his way down the apartment stairs. He sat on them and looked sideways at Sherlock, panting with his tongue hanging out. Sherlock's face went ghost-white and he stopped playing.

"Oh, crapsticks," he muttered apprehensively. He found, inconveniently enough, that he had to go to the bathroom. The dog refused to move from his spot on the stairs, thus blocking the way to the bathroom. "Basturd," Sherlock sneered spitefully. All of a sudden, he got an idea.

"Fetch!" he commanded, throwing a spray-can into the kitchen. Maxwell wagged his tail and went after it while Sherlock rushed to the bathroom like Usain Bolt. Upon arrival, though, he noticed that it smelled worse than usual. John just cleaned it a few nights ago. He shrugged. Perhaps he missed a spot of mold. But when he opened the door, he was horrified by the sight: toilet paper piled in the sink, trash half-eaten in the bath tub, pee all over the floor -

"_Maxwell_!" Sherlock shouted. The dog approached him and looked as if he were smiling. Sherlock cursed under his breath about creatures with only half a brain while cleaning the whole bathroom all by himself. Next, he hobbled downstairs and looked in the fridge for lunch. All he could find that wouldn't take forever to make was leftover Chinese food. And so, he took it out and ate it. However, he was still bored.

Just then, he heard a scuffling and crashing noise upstairs. He dropped everything he was eating and ran in that direction. It was coming from the bedroom. He opened the door and his jaw dropped five feet. The pillows were chewed right through, the blankets were covered in shredded dog fur, and his favorite vase that John got him from Barcelona lay in pieces on the floor.

"_Maxwell_!" Sherlock shouted. The dog smiled once again, a corner of a pillow in his mouth. Sherlock cursed under his breath about creatures that had no respect for property while cleaning the whole bedroom by himself. Then, he stormed downstairs and got out his violin again. He began playing a classical composition by Johann Sebastian Bach when all of a sudden, he heard a noise coming from the kitchen.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" he snarled angrily. He stomped into the kitchen and gasped loudly upon arrival. Not his science lab! Graduated cylinders lay smothered in drool, flasks spilt their mixtures all over his lunch, and beakers were a jumbled mess on the floor. Not to mention, the dog ate most of his lunch.

"_Maxwell_!" Sherlock shouted. The dog grinned ever-largely, a noodle hanging beneath his nose like a stick-thin moustache. That was the final straw for the consulting detective. After cursing and cleaning that mess as well, he opened the front door and pointed it out to the dog who was just standing there.

"Out," he commanded. Maxwell looked at him sideways for a minute, as if to say, "But _why_?". "Out!" Sherlock barked firmly. Maxwell walked outside and Sherlock shut the door and folded his arms. That dog would be the death of him, he supposed.

John got home from work and Sherlock kissed his cheek hard.

"Finally, you're _home_! Now we can snuggle!" he cheered. John chuckled at his eagerness. Then -

"Where's Maxwell?" he asked. Sherlock's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he gulped timorously. Panic took control of his body.

"Uh...er...about that..." he began nervously.

Later...

"What do you _mean_ you let him out into the cold of London?!" John demanded impatiently.

"John, please! He was being an arsehole, what with messing up the place and all!"

"Dear, he's just a puppy! He doesn't know any better!"

"Really?! That's funny, because it seemed to _me_ like he knew _perfectly well what he was doing_!" Sherlock screeched. John shook his head.

"Never mind. There's no point in arguing any longer. Looks like we've found ourselves a case."

"John, I'm sorry..." Sherlock said, trying to reach out for the smaller man's hand. John took it and stroked the back with his thumb.

"Sherlock, you're an idiot. I _love_ you...but you're an idiot," he explained. Sherlock chuckled weakly.

"Only around you, darling," he joked in reply.

"Cheeky," John mused, kissing his boyfriend.


	4. Finding Maxwell Part 2

**A/N: I don't really want summer to end anymore. I'm going into high school and I'm so nervous because it's ****_high school, _****for Pete's sake. I'm not emotionally ready to leave the safety blanket of middle school. I loved eighth-grade. ...Oh well, you don't wanna hear my sob-story. What you want is my ****_other_**** story. So in this chapter, Sherlock and John search for Maxwell using clues left around London. Enjoy! Please R & R!**

"John, if you were going to get me a dog, couldn't you at _least_ have gotten one that didn't bark a lot or tear up all the rooms out of boredom?" Sherlock argued, walking hand-in-hand down the streets of London with the man he loved. John laughed at his whiny voice, finding it to be...cute.

"No, dear, that's too easy. And anyways, he acts exactly like _you_. That's why I thought he was perfect. When he gave me that little look similar to one that you always give me, I fell in love _instantly_." Sherlock was slightly flattered by all this.

"_Really_? John...I don't know what to say," he choked, embarrassedly adjusting his collar. He had never received such words of kindness that weren't forced before.

"Don't say anything. Just enjoy the beautiful silence of London," John chuckled. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"But John...London isn't silent - " He was cut off by a pair of lips that pressed upon his. When they pulled back, a smile slowly curled on Sherlock's lips. "How I _love_ it when you interrupt me that way," he said. The two men continued to walk down the street, occasionally locking eyes and smiling. They found their first clue when Sherlock saw a man with golden hairs on his coat. The consulting detective pinned him down on the sidewalk and shined a flashlight in his face.

"What have you done with Maxwell, you pig-headed sod?!" he demanded.

"Hey! Hey, _ow_! What the _hell_, man?!" the mysterious man shouted.

"Sherlock? ..._Sherlock_!" John scolded. He ran up to them and pulled the taller man off the other man. Then he placed his hands on his shoulders, nearly shaking him. "Dear, we've been over this: do _not_ strangle random pedestrians on the sidewalk!"

"But _John_~! He has _dog_ hair on him! It's golden and long. Obviously it belongs to a long and golden-haired dog, which is what we have. It smells like talc powder, which is what I used in the experiment that Maxwell screwed up. If you see here, there's a microscopic fleck of it on the hair, barely large enough for the naked eye to see. It's pretty obvious he did something with our dog."

"I - I didn't hurt your stupid dog! He was just walkin' and I - I petted him, right on the head! I didn't do nothing!" the man whimpered frightenedly. Sherlock's face brightened up like Edison's improvisation of the incandescent lightbulb.

"So he _did_ see him! ...Excuse me sir, but do you know where he went afterwards - "

"No! Stay away! You'll pounce on me again!" the man shouted. Sherlock's jaw dropped and he put a hand on his heart in offense as if it were the silliest thing he'd ever heard.

"Well, I never - ! I wouldn't hurt a _fly_! ...Now tell me where the dog went or I'll cut your throat."

"AAAAAAA!" The man sprinted away and Sherlock's shoulders went limp.

"Smooth," John commented. They searched all over London for Maxwell, checking every nook and cranny of it. They asked a few people where he went; none of them knew the answers. They hung up posters of him; nobody called their number. They called his name; no dogs howled back in reply. John kept his hopes up, but his partner was growing more and more doubtful by the second.

"Well, it's pretty late. We'd better get back home and sleep, but we'll search more starting tomorrow. Does that sound good to you, Sherlock? ...Sherlock?"

The consulting detective sighed, slumped against the wall and sunk to the ground, wallowing in self-pity. John blinked before kneeling down and rubbing the back of his poor bumming boyfriend.

"Aw, what's the matter, Sherly?" he cooed tenderly, even though he probably knew the answer already.

"It doesn't make any sense! _None_ of it does! There's not one single clue as to where he is! John, what if we never find him? What if he's in Liverpool or Hampshire by now, slowly dying in the cold of the night? I feel like a total shitebag for putting him out. It's like you said before: I'm an idiot," Sherlock moaned, trying to hide his head in his arms. John couldn't help but chuckle at this.

"Oh, come on, no you're not! You're a _genius_. You can tell where a person's been by looking at his eyebrows, you do scientific experiments that seem out of this world, and you can play the violin better than the fiddler on the roof. You know I don't mean to get angry with you, dear. Don't beat yourself up over this." He hugged the tense, curled up ball that was Sherlock. "And besides, if he's anything like you as I said before, he'll probably return to the apartment after his nice little walk."

The words were meant to be comforting in a joking matter, but Sherlock took it a whole different way.

"Of _course_! That explains _everything_! The behavioral patterns, the chatty mouth, and the wreckage of things when bored! _John_! That's _brillant_! God, you're so beautiful right now! I love you, I love you, I love you! Oh - " He kissed John hard on the mouth, his mood climbing up significantly. Next, he took his hand and nearly dragged him down the street.

"Where are we going?" John laughed, a bit caught off-guard by Sherlock's sudden perkiness.

"Back to the apartment, of course!" Sherlock giggled. Once they got there, they opened the door to their flat and peered inside. The first thing they saw was Maxwell, unscratched and healthy, sitting on Sherlock's chair.

"Maxwell! You're back! Did you miss your owners?" John hummed fondly, scratching the golden retriever's ears. Maxwell panted playfully and stopped when Sherlock showed up in his view. John disappeared to make some late-night dinner while Sherlock folded his arms and said,

"Maxwell, get out of my chair. Come on. Out." The dog gave him this...this _look_. It seemed so familiar to the taller man. "_What_?" he inquired. Of course, Maxwell couldn't answer. Sherlock took a closer look and was shocked to see what was in the dog's eyes: loyalty, mystery, affection, not wanting to leave the chair... **Wow...he really ****_is_**** like me,** he mused in his head.

He stuck out his hand to Maxwell as if it were a peace offering.

"Truce?" he asked. In response, the dog licked his face, giving him a lot of friendly kisses and nuzzling his hair with his nose. Sherlock chuckled, gently reached out, and petted the dog as if he were a joyful five-year-old again. John watched fondly in the distance, loving every second of his boyfriend and his dog's interaction.

**This is the best idea I've ever had**, he thought with triumph.


	5. Maxine

**A/N: I may be at my cottage in Delaware, but I can still download chapters because I have Wi-Fi. Yay~! So in this chapter, Sherlock and John find that they have made a horrible mistake in forgetting to get Maxwell neutered. You shall find out why this is important pretty soon. :-) By the way, this is the last chapter. Thank you for reading! Enjoy! Please R & R!**

After dinner and the long-awaited Snuggle Time (which Maxwell partially interrupted when he climbed all over them on the couch), the two men began to prepare for their bedtime ritual. John complimented Sherlock on how nice the apartment looked and Sherlock tried to let go of the grudge he held against Maxwell for _making_ him arrange the flat so nicely. The only thing that seemed to upset John a little bit was the shattered cobalt glass in the corner near the working desk.

"Is that the vase I gave you from Barcelona?" he asked sadly, even though the answer was right in front of him. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, knowing how much money it had cost his poor boyfriend.

"Yes. The dog broke it," he sighed. Even though he and Maxwell were on okay terms, he was still upset that he broke the vase, of all the valuable things in the place. John gave him a reassuring smile and massaged his shoulders.

"Cheer up, Sherlock. I'll get you a new one."

"But John. That cost you - "

"Shhhh." John gently placed his index finger on Sherlock's lips. The taller man remained silent as they cleaned up the glass pieces, threw them away, and got into bed. Then -

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock. Love you."

"Love you too." They kissed chastely and turned off the lights. The next morning, since there were no cases to be solved, Sherlock and John decided to take Maxwell for a walk in the dog park of London. Sherlock was noticeably shaking less when he was around the many dogs there and he even offered to play fetch with some of them. John smiled, silently basking in his own victory.

However, Maxwell was beginning to act in a stranger behavior than usual. A few times, he fell down, whimpered, and rolled over in the dirt. Other times, he would bark viciously and nip John's hand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow out of inquiry.

"What's _his_ problem?" John shrugged.

"Beats me, love. Perhaps he's bored. We should probably head back anyways." The two men left the dog park and Maxwell tagged along behind them. It was as if he'd lost his burst of energy overnight. When they tried to feed him, he deliberately turned down his meals. He began lagging his body around and struggling while doing so. They both thought it was just a phase he was going through. But when he wouldn't even react to a picture of a squirrel anymore, they put their feet down and called a private vet.

The vet arrived at once, introducing himself as Dr. Bob. The two men told him the symptoms and he got to work. Based off what they said and the results of his check-up with Maxwell, he was able to draw a basic conclusion.

"Okay. Boys, I don't know how you're going to react to this, but - "

"What is it?! Is he sick?! Is he in the closet?! Is he dead and alive at the same time just like Quantum Theory?! Tell meeeeee!" Sherlock demanded, grabbing Dr. Bob's collar and shoving him against the wall urgently. The doctor scanned his face dumbfoundedly before responding with,

"That's the problem: your dog is pregnant. '_He_' is actually a _she_." A plopping sound was heard as both jaws descended to the ground.

"W-W-_WHAT_?!" Sherlock and John exclaimed, becoming stupid for half a second. The doctor sighed.

"Tsk tsk tsk. Well, of _course_ it happened. You forgot to get her neutered, you silly boys." This caused both men to face-palm themselves and curse. Even so, they paid the doctor and thanked him for his help. They turned to where Maxwell was sitting on the floor.

"Well...I guess we'll just to have to adapt to having a Maxine and a few puppies in the house," John mused, trying to bring light to the situation. Sherlock chuckled in response.

"Yeah...I guess so." Over the next few months, Maxine became more aggressive and territorial. She continued to ignore the piles of dog food placed in her bowl and she refused to go anywhere outside of the apartment. Finally, one night, her time had come. It was midnight and John, a light-sleeper compared to Sherlock, awakened to the sound of whining and struggling.

"Maxine? Girl, what's wro - " By the time he was able to see what the problem was, he ended up rolling on the floor, laughing.

"Wha - ? Wha's going on? 'S there a case?" Sherlock bumbled, waking up from the noise. He took a good look at what John was pointing at so jovially and gasped in horror. "Oh, _no_!" Sherlock raced to the object and ran his fingers through his hair stressfully. "_Shite_! Not my _scarf_ _drawer_!"

Sure enough, Maxine was laying in Sherlock's scarf drawer and tending to her newly-born young. She seemed tired and weak, but she pandered to her children's every needs anyways. The scarf drawer smelt like dog urine and something else the two men did not quite like to know at the moment.

"Now _that_ is powerful parenting," John commented, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The taller man laughed at the cheesiness of the line before slipping an arm around his waist.

"Yes...Yes it is," he agreed. Maxine took care of her children for three weeks until they were old enough to give up for adoption. The day they were being sold to their new owners, the golden retriever puppies were placed into baskets. They yipped and whined, giving sweet little kisses to anybody and evybody. They were the perkiest little fluff-balls that you ever did see with eyes that shone like tiny black rubies.

Molly came in from the hospital to report yet another dead body for Sherlock to beat up with his riding crop. Sherlock was about to give her his usual rude, snarky remark when her face brightened up and she gasped with delight.

"Puppies!" she cried, kneeling down to stroke their fur. The young dogs barked and licked her with their warm wet tongues. Sherlock decided to mess around with her a bit anyhow.

"Molly, I advise that you back away at once. These creatures have Canine AIDS. It would be quite unfortunate if you contracted it from them, don't you think?" he bullied. John gave him a stern look and lightly slapped his arm.

"Oh, come on, no they don't. Stop that," he retorted nonchalantly though firmly. The two men ended up selling all seven of the puppies. They were a bit sad to see them go, but it was worth allowing them to experience a whole new life. That night, Sherlock and John sat by the glowing fireplace and reminisced.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Remember that night at the local inn when I was so frightened out of my wits?"

"Yes. What about it?" Sherlock swallowed and smiled.

"It's funny. I was so afraid all those months ago. Now I'm not afraid anymore since I've conquered my worst fear. And yet," He grabbed the smaller man's hand with his own. "I couldn't have done it without you, love." John laughed and stroked his hand.

"I kept that promise true to heart, dear," he said. Maxine lay down by the fireplace like the good dog she was while the two men leaned forward at the same time to meet with their lips.


End file.
